Pop
by performativezippers
Summary: Repost from Rizzles Fanfic Challenge tumblr. Prompt: fireworks and/or umbrella. A first date oneshot. And your mother, hand to God, honestly wanted your first date story with Maura to be, "Jane took me to see the fireworks at 4th of July with a thousand other people. And her mother. And we did nothing but hold hands and plan our wedding and pregnancy schedule."


You're an idiot.

You spend weeks planning. You make sure everything is perfect. Honestly, the hardest part is calling off your mother. First, she wanted to spend the holiday with you, completely missing the fact that, just this once, you'd like to be alone with Maura. Then, somehow, in a surprise twist, she, completely bewilderingly, figured it out. She figured out that you wanted this to be a date, a first date, a first romantic evening of two consenting adults only.

You have no idea how she figured it out, because it took you years and you were the one with the feelings and mind-numbing attraction to your best friend.

But she figured it, and, somehow, she was incredibly cool about it. It was great. But then, and you should have seen this coming, she got **too** cool about it: she announced, plain as day, that she wanted to come. She wanted to come on your date. She wanted to come on your first date. She wanted to come on your first date with Maura Isles, whose other first dates have probably included private yachts and midnight tours of the Louvre and other fancy shit you can't even imagine. And your mother, hand to God, honestly wanted your first date story with Maura to be, "Jane took me to see the fireworks at 4th of July with a thousand other people. And her mother. And we did nothing but hold hands and plan our wedding and pregnancy schedule."

That woman. It's torture sometimes.

So yeah, that took a while to sort out.

You're not sure when **you** started to figure it out, really, but you know that you woke up from your surgery wanting to see only Maura. You'd shot yourself to give her a better chance of survival, and it wasn't until you'd seen her, actually seen her with your own eyes, that you'd let yourself begin to recover. You'd screamed yourself hoarse to get Nurse Ratched to let her in to your hospital room, and the second she'd crossed the threshold you'd known, deep in your bones, that you were done. That she was it for you. And you'd waited a long time to tell her—first you wanted to be healthy again, and then to have some arrests under your belt, and then for her to break up with Slucky (which, by the way, fuck that, right?).

But tequila was your friend, and, finally, just a few weeks ago, you'd told her that you have feelings for her. It was terrifying and you'd almost thrown up (only 20% because of the tequila) but you did it. And she, completely bewilderingly, had thrown her arms around you and said "yes" before you'd even asked the question. And then her phone had rung and she'd been on the first flight to Chicago to consult on a federal case that had originated in Boston. And she'd spent three grueling weeks there and your phone calls simply could not suffice, simply could not satisfy this insatiable need for her growing inside of you. So you threw your entire self into planning an amazing, brilliant, perfect, romantic, exciting, worth-the-wait first date. A first date to tell stories about. A first date to tell your grandbabies about. A first date to keep your mother out of at all costs.

But you forgot that you're an idiot.

Her flight lands at Logan airport at 3:57pm on July 4th. You pick her up in a car with a red and white checked blanket and a picnic basket overflowing with organic delicacies tucked into the trunk. You sweep her up in a hug and kiss her cheek at baggage claim before driving you both out to the park. She chatters about the case in the car and you keep getting honked at because you're spending an inordinate amount of time looking at her, so pretty in the seat next to you. She notices that you cleaned out your car for her. You notice that she's beautiful. Best date ever.

You arrive to the park before most of the families with young kids and stake out a spot furthest from the trees to have the best view of the fireworks (you'd scouted extensively last week and couldn't be more pleased no one has taken this prime spot). For the next few hours, you're the perfect date host. You ply her with wine and fancy sausage and finger salads and this cheese that you literally had to close your eyes to pay for, handing over your card and asking the cashier not to say the amount out loud. You hold her hand and look at her too much and tell her how much you like her and how wonderful she is.

Every time you compliment her, she ducks her head down and blushes. You can't wait to kiss her, but you're waiting because you want it to be perfect. You're going to do it right after the finale of the fireworks. Or maybe during the finale, depending. It's going to be perfect. Your mother isn't here, so it's already close to perfect, honestly. You want to kiss her so badly you might die or possibly start making out with the wine bottle, but you're waiting for perfection.

God, she is perfection.

The park fills up and you save her cheese from a rogue puppy and everywhere around you are excited kids, teenagers sneaking weed, and couples making out. When it starts to get dark, you clean up the food and lay down on your back, enjoying your perfect view of the perfectly cloudless night sky. She joins you, snuggling into your side, using your arm as a pillow. She smells amazing and feels amazing and is amazing and you kiss her head and tell yourself that didn't count as a first kiss and she snuggles in closer and oh my god, your life is perfect.

The music starts and you urge her onto her back, holding one of her hands in yours and wrapping your other arm around her.

The first firework bursts across the sky with a loud pop. She jumps at the sound, and you smile into the darkness. The next few scream into the sky, exploding with loud pops and bangs.

Her grip on your hand is nearly painful.

A few blast at once, making an approximation of the American flag. You're impressed, and look over at her to gauge her reaction because, for once in her life, she's totally silent.

You look over, and she's white as a sheet. She's shaking in your arms, and her mouth is slightly open. Her eyes are panicked.

You sit up immediately, leaning over her, reaching over to touch her face. "Maura! Maura! What's wrong! Maura!"

She doesn't even seem to see you. She's staring into the sky, petrified.

You start to panic too, now. "MAURA. MAURA, HONEY, LOOK AT ME. LOOK AT ME, MAURA."

With a herculean effort, she wrenches her eyes to your face. Slowly, with monumental effort, she forces out three words. "G-gun…f-f-fire. B-bobby. You."

You're a fucking idiot.

You pick her up and, holding her in your arms, sprint out of the park, trampling a lot of blankets but hopefully no human limbs, leaving your blanket and cheese for the dogs. You can't possibly run fast enough, and the sound of the fireworks is horribly loud. You're completely out of breath but you find a way to keep talking to her anyway. You tell her that you're safe, that she's safe, that Bobby is dead and that you're an idiot. You tell her she's having a flashback and it isn't real and that you're right here.

You're not sure she can hear you. After a few minutes, she wraps her arms around your neck and hangs on, burrowing her face in your shoulder.

You run faster.

You practically throw her in the car before sprinting around to the driver's seat and turning on the music as loud as you can. It's on some horrible country music station, but you don't care. You drive insanely quickly, doing your best to head in a straight line away from the noise. You consider using the siren, but you're worried that will bring back more bad memories.

Maura is silent. As the song changes, you can hear her breathing, ragged and fast, her eyes wide and unseeing.

You make it to her house in record time. You carry her into the living room and lay her down on the couch. You kneel next to her, rubbing her hands between your own, pleading with her to come back to you.

Slowly, she does. Her eyes see you, then dart around, recognizing her home. After a moment, she reaches out and touches your face. A beat, and then she pulls on your hands. "Come here," she whispers hoarsely.

At her urging, you climb awkwardly onto the couch, hovering over her. She jerks your body down onto her. "Maur, I don't want to squish you."

Her voice is muffled and rough in your hair. "I need you to. It means you're here."

You give her your full weight and cradle her head into your shoulder.

After about ten minutes, her heart rate slows to normal. She lets out a huge shuddering breath, and then begins to cry. You sit up and pull her with you until she's curled up, practically in your lap, sobbing into your body. After about ten minutes her sobs slow, and, for the first time, through her tears, she tells you about what it was like in the morgue that day. How alone she felt. How afraid. How she still has nightmares about Frankie on her table. How she still has nightmares about you on the pavement. Of you showing up on her table to be autopsied. How loud noises send her back to that day. How your blood seeped into her skin and her heart. How she threw up at the hospital. How she screamed "YOU DON'T FUCKING KNOW ANYTHING" at Frost when he'd tried to comfort her in the waiting room. How she hadn't wanted to wash her hands in case that was the last she ever saw of you, caking under her nails and down to her wrists. How afraid she still is. How much hate and fear she still has.

How much she loves you.

You lean down and kiss her. It's snotty and wet and she hiccups in the middle of it, but you couldn't wait another second. She pulls away to wipe her nose on the back of her hand before pulling you back in again.

She's halfway through climbing on top of you, when your mother barges in the kitchen door. "Oh! Sorry!"

You pull apart. Maura almost laughs half-heartedly, and you groan. Of course.

And it doesn't stop there. "Janie! I thought you were going to take her out to the fireworks! Do something romantic! Not make out on the couch like teenagers! I raised you better than that, I know I did!"

Your hands are over your eyes, so you don't notice that she's, for some ungodly reason, come closer, until "Maura, honey! Why are you crying?" The smack on your head snaps your eyes open. "JANIE, WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER!"

"What? Nothing!"

Her eyes cloud. "Oh no." She turns to Maura. "Is she that bad of a kisser?"

Maura laughs for real. She reaches over and takes your hand, pulling it into her own lap. She smiles at your mother, the tears in her eyes making them sparkle. Her voice has finally steadied. "No, Angela, Jane is wonderful. I just, unfortunately, had a bit of a post-traumatic flashback due to the sound of the fireworks. The sound resembles gunfire more than I had realized."

And your mom is, surprisingly, really cool about it. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry to hear that." She reaches out and squeezes Maura's arm. "For me, for weeks, it was the sound of the phone. Which was really a challenge, because you know how I love to talk on the phone."

She and Maura share a laugh, and Maura leans into your side and you slip your arm around her, holding her close.

Your mom makes you all tea, and you stay up until 3am watching random things on television and talking about nothing until the sound of fireworks finally dies off.

You and Maura kiss your mother goodnight and head upstairs. You climb into bed together and you hold her until she falls asleep with you covering her like an umbrella.

You love her. Your plan was terrible and you're an idiot and your mother was an integral part of your first date with Maura Fucking Isles.

But you're falling asleep protecting Maura, and you love her and she loves you and you're gonna have a thousand more chances to take her on the perfect date, so you fall asleep happy. Just, no more fireworks.


End file.
